Offerings
by thepalehorsevictoria
Summary: Now that Kirkwall has been restored, the Reluctant Viscountess seeks out the once Exiled Prince, wondering if his offer still stands. Rated M for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"I will offer you no less than a prince," he had promised. Marian often found herself closing her eyes and taking herself back to his words, and in an instant she could breathe in swirls of incense and the warm tenor of his voice echoing in the Chantry. She remembered that moment as the day she firmly decided on a course of action, and that nothing would stand in her way.

As the years passed, she still had all kinds of details stored away in her heart: his blue eyes, the small dimple in his right cheek from his lopsided grin, and-Maker!-his voice. Sebastian's promise was a beacon of hope that kept her strong even through all the trials, the fighting, and the long nights she spent building Kirkwall back up from its ashes.

The Viscountess was more used to fighting in armor than negotiating from a desk, and made no secret about it. She often found herself wishing that she could run through her opposition with a blade rather than politely mince words in front of an audience. She wasn't any good at this-the only reason she was deemed the Champion of Kirkwall in the first place was because she ran through someone with a blade. Her seneschal was much better at this sort of thing, and she reminded him of this fact very often.

But then, after what felt like an endless series of arguments and compromises, the turmoil ended. The only paperwork that came across her desk were building permits and treasury balances. Marian could finally rest, and build her life anew; after running and fighting for ten years, she could stop.

The timing was uncanny. A few days after she started discussing succession with Bran, a letter sealed with brilliant blue wax appeared in the tray on her desk.

Her breath hitched in her chest as she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, but she quickly exhaled when she came across the flourished handwriting and formal language.

_Dear Lady Kirkwall-_

_His Royal Highness the Prince of Starkhaven requests the honour of your presence at Arrow's Rest._

It wasn't even his handwriting-she had seen him copy manuscripts at the Chantry before, and there was a small slant to the simple form of his letters.

Marian's hands were shaking in disbelief, and the air in her lungs left her all at once, leaving her chest concave. She backpedalled into the chair by the small fire in her study, falling back into the soft material.

All those years, all the work suddenly felt like it was for nothing. She should have made it a point to write him regularly-why hadn't she thought of that? Marian could feel the tears begin to well up in her eyes, and she clenched her teeth trying to will herself to stop lest Bran barge in again and find her in such despair.

And then she saw it.

The parchment, still in her trembling hand, was up against the fire, so close that dark brown marks appeared in the middle of a blank space. A few letters, neat and blocky, and slanted to the right. Marian leaned closer to the fire, desperately trying to bring more letters to light without burning the page completely.

_Your prince awaits you.  
>-SV<em>

Her heart leapt out of her chest at the words, and she bounded out of the chair and the study, down the hall, and into her bedroom to start packing.

Starkhaven was cold, but Marian rode on amongst the guards. She was mildly kicking herself for insisting on the subterfuge and riding on horseback in nondescript armor instead of using a Chantry sister as a decoy in the carriage with all the blankets.

Her old instincts told her it seemed like a good idea at the time, especially when the guards were all newer recruits while Aveline's best stayed in Kirkwall. That decision was the one compromise she managed to keep - the Guard Captain and the Seneschal flatly refused her original plans to ride out herself.

It was Varric's idea to ride as a guard. Given her adventurous history, it sounded like a good idea … _at the time_. Until she realized just how much colder the Starkhaven winters were. Kirkwall's warm weather had spoiled her.

Blighted state visits. It would have been much easier to go alone and ignore all these completely unnecessary protocols and gestures. What did it matter if she went to see him after all these years, why did it have to be such a grand thing when she would likely be so nervous she'd harf on her shoes and doom the entire visit?

Not long before the sun set, the entourage saw the high walls of Arrow's Rest in the distance, and they could make it into the city before nightfall.

Once the entourage was safely within the city walls and her decoy was escorted inside the keep, Marian coaxed her tired horse through the streets in search of an inn, and thankfully it did not take her long to find one. The streets were dark and empty save the occasional street lantern, and the inn's large and heavy sign was clearly illuminated, had bright colors from new paint. Marian smirked at the name. Starkhaven took its archery very seriously, it seemed.

"Welcome to the Bow and Arrow, messere." A stout, smiling face looked up and tugged at her heartstrings when it reminded her of Bodahn. From his last letter, he and Sandal were somewhere in Orlais and thoroughly enjoying the novel cuisine.

While brushing her horse in the stable, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she sensed someone in her peripheral vision. With her weapon close by, Marian ran through the possibilities in her head. She didn't have any active disputes with anyone in Kirkwall-none that she knew of, anyway. Perhaps it was a goon looking for some fast coin. Either way, she was ready to spring into action when she turned around, but there was nothing there.

Uneasy, Marian kept staring into the dark night, scanning the area. It wasn't unheard of for someone to get the drop on her, but she knew she was terribly out of practice, and the thought of growing slow and nonchalant scared her. Especially in new surroundings. After a while, she accepted the small defeat and went up to the room she paid for.

After the long and cold journey, she was grateful for a warm bed and a hot meal. She fell asleep as soon as she lay down she fell straight to sleep, too tired to be nervous about the next morning.

Oh, but her nerves were fine company when she woke at first light, especially after she found that there wasn't enough hot water in the inn for a proper bath. She made do with a large bucket of hot water and a washbasin, and worked hard to rid herself of all the grime from her travels before she went up to the keep.

Her hands shook as she dressed, remembering the reason she came, and cursing the ceremony of the occasion. She had already deviated from the traditional route by not spending the night in the keep, but Maker be damned if she allowed Sebastian to see her fresh off the road after all these years.

No matter that he had seen her in far worse shape before, covered in blood spatters of various origins. Marian was going to do this differently.

She fidgeted with her dress and coronet enough to be mildly comfortable, and wrapped herself in a fur-lined cloak (which, to her amusement, had both the Kirkwall and Amell colors), and carefully pulled the hood over her head so she wouldn't upset her coronet. She found a pair of simple black gloves that would keep the wind from biting her hands, and made her way to the fortified stone structure that towered above the rest of the city.

Her stomach wouldn't stop flipping.


	2. Chapter 2

The audience chamber was large and sparse. At the far end stood a simple iron throne in front of a large stone mosaic of two crossed arrows on the wall, and the throne was flanked by two metal braziers with warm fires burning. The flames were doing wonderful things to the Prince's gleaming white armor, bathing him in gold.

He must have just come in from somewhere. There were small puddles of water under his boots, and he was standing off to one side warming his hands over one of the braziers, talking to a few subjects. But at the sound of the heavy door swinging shut, he turned to see her. Sebastian's eyes squinted at first to see across the distance, and then they widened with surprise.

As she crossed the room, Marian could not contain her smile, and her heart was beating so fast she thought it would take flight.

He met her in front of his throne, and bowed from his waist. "Lady Kirkwall, on behalf of the people of Starkhaven, I bid you welcome to Arrow's Rest." His voice boomed through the chamber and was a bright contrast to the soft tones that Marian had committed to memory. But the smile on his face was just as she remembered it.

Marian offered a deep curtsy. "Kirkwall has missed you, your Royal Highness, but is glad to see you at home." She immediately regretted her choice of words - there was a reason Bran did all the talking back home.

Sebastian seemed to have missed any error, straightening himself up and offering her his arm. "Please, let me show you around." Shaking, she stole a look into his impossibly blue eyes before politely resting her gloved fingers on the crook of his armor.

* * *

><p>One of the many benefits of wearing armor instead of a dress was that the boots were built to be sturdy and comfortable. The two heads of state walked through a fair portion of the city and most of the keep, and Marian regretted wearing dainty new shoes. And her feet were freezing.<p>

The final stop was his study. Sebastian opened the door and showed her in, and she smiled warmly at the tea service set in front of the pair of couches by the fire. Starkhaven was colder than Kirkwall in the winter, but they were much more generous with their firewood-fires crackled in almost every room to ward off the chill. And lots of tea.

Marian sat down on one of the couches, eager to be off her feet after so much walking, and Sebastian served her a large cup of tea before busying himself with slicing the buttery pie. Plucking off her gloves to enjoy the hot ceramic of the cup, Marian inhaled deeply and sipped. The tea was strong and hot, but a bit too sweet for her liking-nonetheless she drank frequently to be polite, and it kept her hands busy. She had no idea what to do short of dropping her tea and scalding herself while jumping to wrap her arms around him.

But she stayed seated-she even minded her posture and sat up straighter and taller-and made short work of the slice of pie offered to her, grateful for food. She really should have had breakfast; it was no small feat that she kept her stomach's angry growls to herself as they passed the dining room earlier on in the tour.

Sebastian was still standing, his gaze still on her. "If you'll excuse me, my lady, this armor is hardly necessary." He gave her a short bow from his neck, and disappeared through a door.

Now that she had some sustenance and was quickly warming up by the fire, Marian's shoulders relaxed a little, and she dared to slip a foot out of its shoe with a great sigh of relief. The savory pie was delicious, but she was too hungry to be sated with just one slice. After chewing a fingernail in debate and scanning the room for any witnesses, she got up and cut herself another slice, devouring it as soon as she settled back into the couch, forgetting her posture from before. This was all just too good.

The fire was doing a very good job of relaxing her and she took off her other shoe to prop her feet on the couch towards the hot flames. She leaned back into the cushions, cradling her tea close to her chest. For a moment, she let herself imagine the Prince's warm, tanned forehead in place of the hot cup, feverish and damp with sweat after he spent herself in her depths. A soft moan unfurled from her throat before she could stop it.

"Good to see you've finally relaxed some," he chuckled. Marian's eyes tore open and she bolted upright, embarrassed.

"Sebastian! I," she was flushed and nervous, "your Highness, forgive me." It was a miracle that she didn't spill any tea.

"For what? He stepped towards the tea and out of the shadow. Marian's breath caught in her throat again; he had changed out of his armor and now in a simple tunic, waistcoat, and kilt, with thick socks up to his knees.

Andraste's _flaming_ _sword_, the kilt was as distracting as his eyes.

_Years ago, at the Wounded Coast, a giddy Marian had pressed him to tell her about the fabled Starkhaven tradition. Blushing, he had avoided the one question he knew was on her mind-it was on everyone's. He started to ramble on the difference in the tartan patterns of the Starkhaven houses, and how the Vael _sett_ came to be. He even told her about his grandfather's kilt pin and _sgian dubh_, though it saddened him to remember that they were long lost. Sebastian avoided her eyes lest their winter green color weaken his resolve and she would finally get her answer._

_But finally he had caved. "Yes, Hawke. There's nothing under the kilt." He blushed to match his hair._

And here he was, pouring himself a cup of tea, and Marian wished hard for a sudden, strong gust of wind to crash through the room and lift the hem of the blue and green tartan. She pulled her shoulders back further and straightened her back again, trying to regain some composure.

His voice was warm. "You can relax, Hawke," he hesitated before he cut another slice of pie, smirking at the missing portion. "It's just you and me now." Sebastian eased back into the couch across from her, and dug into the pie like it was supper at the Hanged Man. "Alabaster is best for statues, and you are too beautiful to be one."

Marian's mouth parted at the compliment and how easily it came to him, and she swallowed before she looked down into her empty teacup. It amazed her to see him so unchanged over the years, and she was so enamored with this constancy amidst all the turmoil. Her eyes flickered up as Sebastian nonchalantly lifted one leg to cross the other at his knees. If he was in his armor she'd have thought nothing of it, but the tantalizing knowledge of the lack of smallclothes and _all that copper skin _made her gasp with desire. Maker, she hoped he hadn't caught that.

She shook her head slightly, turning back to the conversation. With the soft timbre of his voice and the warmth around her, she did feel herself relax a little. "I never thought this would be so difficult. Ogres are easier than carrying on like this. How do you do it? All the gestures and false smiles and blighted formalities. . ."

"Lots of practice," he smiled, "It's not entirely different from vespers or taking confession. But I can see where you feel a bit of a disadvantage."

She slouched and leaned back into the couch, feeling the twists in her spine where the stress always gnawed at her. "I just don't think I'm right for this. Combat gives up, eventually. Someone will die or pass out or give up. Fighting with words carries on _forever_, though." Marian finally let go of the teacup and set it on the floor before she buried her face in her hands to let out a groan. "It took ages for Kirkwall to settle."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Retaking Starkhaven was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I had years of preparation, you remember. Your task of bringing up something from nothing – that was quite a feat."

Marian waved him away. "But you wanted this, didn't you? Certainly took your time realizing it—but you did know you wanted it. I should have turned it down from the start." She fingered one of the peaks of the silver band around her head. Somewhere in the back of her head she could hear Bran chiding her for fidgeting, and she swept that thought away as quickly as her earlier heated thoughts.

"Why did you take it then, Marian?" He had leaned forward, eyes focused but encouraging.

Her ears pricked at how his voice made her name sound so delicate. Marian had to look away. She had talked herself into another mess and couldn't find a way out of it. _Well, here it is_.

"I kept thinking about what we said back then. Do you remember?" She turned back to face him, trying hard not to let him see her shake. "You lit up at the idea of an alliance between the Prince of Starkhaven and the Viscountess of Kirkwall, and that was when I knew I had to."

His brow furrowed a little and he seemed to have taken a cue from her, staring into an empty teacup.

Maybe the second part of that letter was just a figment of her desperate, lovestruck imagination after all. Bring her hands up to cover her face again, Marian wanted to bury herself further into the couch and disappear. She couldn't say it outright – this was the best she could do, and it wasn't going to be enough.

She felt the room shift and she froze in place when she could sense him move around the table and crouch down in front of her. Balancing his weight on his heels, he reached over and gently pried her hands from her face, taking them into his. His fingers were calloused and his rough palms were very warm, and Marian felt her cheeks heat in a fast blush. It was the first time she had felt his _skin_ on hers, and she fought the shiver that ran up her spine.

When he reached up to brush a knuckle down the side of her cheek, she let out a gasp that turned into a deep sigh of comfort. His touch felt new and familiar all at once, and she knew in her heart that this was where she had always belonged. And she didn't know how she managed to hold a breath when he leaned forward and kissed her, because the gesture took her breath away.

The kiss burned through Marian like the brightest summer sun.


End file.
